Jeremy Clarkson A new type of disfigurement has come to Britain’s towns and villages. It’s worse than illegal fly tipping, and worse than those Styrofoam takeaway containers that carpet every provincial city centre at three in the morning. It’s even worse than stone cladding. And it’s all the fault of your local authority.
Many years ago I remember taking a mock advanced driving test, during which the examiner asked, out of the blue, if I could describe the last road sign I’d passed. It was easy then . . . but not any more, because now you go past a road sign every 1.3 seconds.
I first noticed it last week, coming into London on the A3, and now it’s driving me to distraction. Every lamppost, every telegraph pole and every branch in every tree is festooned with instructions about what the motorist may or may not do at that particular moment.
You’re on a red route so you have a sign, then another, and then another explaining exactly what that means. But you know what it means, and you know you’re on a red route because there, at the side of the road, painted clearly on the orange of the bus lane, or the green of the cycle path, are two red lines.
If there’s a bus lane, then there will be signs telling you what that means too. And then things really start to get stupid. You’re told that the central London congestion charging zone is five miles away. Why? Lots of things are five miles away. You’re also told that there’s a speed camera ahead, that there are bus-lane cameras, that you’re near a library, that there’s no left turn into Acacia Grove . . . and what’s this? Oh, that you ’re entering a “drinking controlled zone”.
It’s got to the point now where there are so many signs that they blur into a background hiss of white noise. It’s a bit like the warnings you get before a film on television. In the olden days, when the announcer said in a solemn BBCish tone that the film about to start contained violence, you knew you were in for a 90-minute bloodbath with many severed heads. And so you sat a little more upright in your Parker Knoll Recliner.
But now, when they say the film contains mild violence and strong nipples, you just go into a trance. Yeah, yeah, yeah. And then you’re surprised and horrified when the movie starts with a shot of Al Pacino having his arms sawn off.
This is what’s happening on the roads. They can put up a sign saying there are speed bumps ahead, and even if it isn’t blocked by another sign saying the road to the left has children running around on it, it really doesn’t register. So you hit the sleeping policeman doing about 80mph. And your back snaps.
The reason, of course, for all the signs is . . . lawyers. After your back has been broken the council can send its legal team round to the quadriplegic department of the local hospital to explain to your relatives that, unfortunately, no claim for damages can be made because there was a sign warning motorists that there were humps ahead.
That’s why you get those idiotic messages on the motorway matrix boards these days; if they tell you it’s windy, you can’t sue anyone for being blown into a bridge parapet. And you won’t be able to argue, of course, partly because they’re right and partly because you’ll have lots of tubes coming out of your nose.
The upshot is that every single street is now a Technicolor blaze of legal disclaimers and nonsense. Not only is this ugly, but it’s dangerous too, because not that long ago, when you ran off the road, the chances of hitting a sign were slim. Now, though, you're almost certain to hit something thanking you for driving carefully through the village.
Sadly, I can only imagine that things will get worse, because soon the sign advising you that you’re entering a nuclear-free zone will have to be translated into 14 languages, and there will have to be some sort of mushroom-cloud pictogram as well, for the educationally challenged.
Then, of course, there will be signs telling you not to smoke within 250 yards of any inhabitable structure, and more signs explaining that the town centre you’re entering is off limits to off-road vehicles.
I can smell this one coming. There is such a palpable sense of hate and bile among ordinary road users that if big 4x4s were to be banned from built-up areas the roads would doubtless immediately unjam themselves. I agree with you all. I too think these school-run mums in automotive leviathans should be horsewhipped to within an inch of their lives. And I’m speaking as someone who actually owns one.
But the trouble is that 4x4s are like nuclear weapons. Because you’ve got one, I can’t put my kids in a normal hatchback, because if we were to crash into one another yours would survive and mine wouldn’t. So I have to have one too.
The only solution is for the bosses of GM and Ford and Toyota to meet in Reykjavik and come up with a Salt treaty of their own.
But then what will we do? We’ve become accustomed to the rough and tumble interiors and the vast acreage of space. So how could we go back to a simple Golf after that? Happily, there’s no need, because while you weren’t looking the car makers introduced a new breed of car that is no bigger than a normal saloon, so it won’t clog up the roads like the fat in David Bowie’s artery, and yet inside there are seven proper seats with seven proper seatbelts.
Vauxhall was first out of the trap with its Zafira — which I’ve written about many times before. It’s rather good, and now it has been joined by the Renault Grand Scénic — which is ugly and made from tracing paper — by the Volkswagen Touran — which is like the Black Hole of Calcutta — and by the Toyota Corolla Verso, which is excellent.
I know, I know. You can’t conceive of the insanity that would have to blow through your head before you’d consider changing your Range Rover for a Toyota Corolla, but bear with me here.
According to the boffins at Euro NCAP, the independent body that tests cars for safety, the Corolla has a top-notch five-star rating, whereas the Range Rover has to make do with just four. Yes, in a head-on accident between the two, you’d be better off in the off-roader, but if you run into an enormous warning sign, amazingly, you’d be better off in the little Toyota. What’s more, if you go for the Corolla, it means your sex life can be more carefree.
You see, with those seats that pop up out of the boot floor, you don’t need to worry about condoms, or interuterine devices, or going into reverse at the last moment. Thrash away. If the resultant baby paste hits the bull’s eye and you end up with another child, at least you won’t have to buy a new car.
The best thing about the Corolla Verso, though, is the quality. There’s a robustness which you simply don’t find in any of its rivals. This car looks like it was designed by someone who actually knows how destructive children can be.
Kids never understand that their feet are going to be further away than they were the week before. So they break stuff. Mine smashed a Renault Scénic to pieces the other day in about 15 minutes.
I have to say at this point that the Corolla is not that pleasant to drive, with roly-poly handling and a cement mixer of an engine, but come on; with the possible exception of the Porsche Cayenne, your average off-roader isn’t exactly a Ferrari, is it? Finally there’s the question of money. A top-of-the-range 1.8 litre Verso is £18,795, a little more than its main rivals, but three times less than you’re asked to pay for a less practical, less safe and more antisocial Range Rover.
I’d like to think, then, that this review is a signpost to a better and less congested future. But unlike the council signposts it doesn’t mess with the view, and if you don’t agree with what it says you can at least use it to light the barbecue.
VITAL STATISTICS
Model Toyota Corolla Verso T2
Engine type Four-cylinder, 1794cc
Power 127bhp @ 6000rpm
Torque 126 lb ft @ 4200rpm
Transmission Five-speed manual, front-wheel drive
Acceleration 0-62mph: 10.8sec
Top speed 121mph
Fuel 36.7mpg (combined)
CO2 184g/km
Suspension (front) MacPherson strut with anti-roll bar
(rear) torsion beam with anti-roll bar
Price £14,995
Verdict Not much fun to drive, but safe for and from your children
Rating
Cars and Coffee, the informal and inclusive wheeled hootenanny originated in Irvine, California has been spreading across the country faster than swine flu. There's no stage with bad cover bands, not a trophy in sight, but you're always likely to see some astounding vehicles.
